


Fallacy Somewhere

by Kettle_of_Fish



Category: Gilbert & Sullivan & Related Fandoms, Ruddigore - Sullivan/Gilbert, The Pirates of Penzance - Sullivan/Gilbert
Genre: Basingstoke, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 07:37:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kettle_of_Fish/pseuds/Kettle_of_Fish
Summary: Eighteen years ago, the bad baronet of Ruddigore disinherited his own unborn son. Now, age seventeen, that son is about to find out – and tackle the consequences.





	Fallacy Somewhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mischieffoal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mischieffoal/gifts).



> Don’t ask me why everyone’s name in this opera has to start with an R, but it does.

Breakfast in Castle Ruddigore was a monumental affair. At the far end of the room, at the head of the table, sat Sir Rupert, the first baronet. The table stretched the length of the family tree itself; all twenty-one generations of resurrected relatives – seated roughly in order, all the way down to Sir Roderick – conversed over their morning jam and toast. It was incredible how, after so many centuries, they still managed to fill the room to its high ceiling with deafening conversation. It could only be supposed that they had had a lot of time to practice.

At the other end of the table sat the current baronet, Sir Ruthven – or Robin, as he was known to everyone outside the castle walls. On his right sat his wife Rose, upon whose lovely complexion eighteen years of marriage seemed to have left no mark. Her table-manners were excellent. On his left sat the couple’s teenage son Rudolph, the product of their single act of consummation – for once was all that Rose’s exemplary etiquette had allowed.

“It’s ever so loud in here,” said Rose, sweetly. “Ah, would that we could live somewhere a little more… tranquil.”

“We will, someday. As soon as Rudolph is ready to take over my duties here...” Smiling, Robin reached out to tousle his son’s hair. Rudolph ducked away and made a humourous face, with wrinkled nose and poked-out tongue, before submitting to his father’s gesture of affection.

This exchange was part of their regular routine. For now, Robin juggled the baronetcy with his day job as a farmer, but he and Rose dreamed of retiring to Robin’s old farmstead for good. Rudolph heard his parents mention it daily in wistful voices, although as far as he could tell, Baronets of Ruddigore always had difficulty leaving the past behind them: it had a nasty habit of following you about, pestering you and occasionally torturing you with unspeakable agonies (all in good humour, of course) unless you paid it due attention.

When they had eaten, Robin doffed his cloak to reveal his grubby brown jacket and trousers tucked into thick farming boots. He and Rudolph loaded up the cart, with Rose superintending, and the three of them set out to Rederring. They left Rudolph in charge of their stall at the market. Before his parents continued on to the farm, Rose kissed her squirming seventeen-year-old son on the cheek. “We’ll see you later,” she said, with a maternal smile. “Fare thee well, my love!”

 

***

 

Rederring market was like every other coastal market, but to Rudolph every hoarse-throated shout was familiar, every rumble of carts and clank of metal poles and thump of wooden boxes. Mothers gossiped distractedly while their children ran squealing and giggling around them. Old women haggled over prices with little success. Ruddy-faced men with arms as thick and rough as weather-beaten branches carried crates across the crowded square, colliding with countless passers-by on their way. In one corner, horses brayed and shuffled their feet impatiently. The world was a sensory festival – the bright, primary yellows and reds and greens of vegetables, the metallic gleam of fish scales in the sun, the gauzy swing of translucent fabrics, the market aroma made up of a hundred scents, pleasant and pungent, that transformed with every change of the breeze. In the distance the sea rolled on, sure and steady, like a musical phrase repeating and repeating.

The morning was hot and busy. Rudolph didn’t have a moment to think about the sweat drenching his forehead or the ache in his tired feet, because every coming minute called on him to weigh out sacks of potatoes or onions, answer somebody’s question or take somebody’s change. He didn’t mind the work. He was well-liked in the village, just as his father was, so market day felt jolly and sociable. All the residents of Rederring turned out, and shoppers from neighbouring hamlets rolled in too, all of whom greeted him with warm smiles and scraps of news.

At about four o’clock there was a lull. Rudolph was just pausing to sit for a moment in the shade behind his stall, when a boy his own age joined him. He was tall and pale, with wine-dark lips and dark pink cheeks, his black hair tied back at the base of his neck. Rudolph recognised him as Dick Dauntless’ son. He had seen the boy before, trailing dully behind his mother and father and their extensive offspring, but Rudolph had always avoided him: Dick’s betrayal of Robin had estranged their families, and an eldest son inherits his father’s quarrels.

“May I join you?” asked the boy, redundantly, as he took a seat anyway in the shade. He was quiet and softly spoken. “I’m Roger,” he said.

“You’re Dick’s son, aren’t you?” It sounded like an accusation.

The boy lowered his eyes, embarrassed. Rudolph noticed his long dark lashes. “I am,” the boy admitted. They sat in silence for a moment. Then, “...and your name…?”

“Oh – excuse me, please. Rudolph. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

They shook hands.

Rudolph sometimes wondered whether he was naturally awkward, or whether it was a learned behaviour trained into him by his shy father and manner-bound mother.

“Are you working here?” Rudolph asked. “I thought your father was a sailor.”

“I’m working for a fisherman he met at the docks.” Roger waved his hand at a stall opposite, laden with pink bream and silver haddock and several blue lobsters. “I wouldn’t make much of a sailor.”

Rudolph looked at him. He wasn’t particularly stout or particularly skinny, but there was no muscle to him; he was all soft edges. His skin looked as if it had never seen the sun. Rudolph glanced at his own brown, lanky, freckled arms. “Would I make a good sailor?”

“Not if you’ve any of your mother’s manners,” Roger replied. Then, with a small smile, he asked, “Have you?”

Rudolph shrugged and grinned. “Apparently not.”

 

***

 

Rudolph waited for his parents to come back to the market. Six o’clock came and went with no sign of them. Seven o’clock. Eight o’clock. It was almost dusk now, so eventually Rudolph loaded the empty boxes into a handcart and walked home alone, still thinking about the boy on the fish stall. The sky was blushing a dark purple-red, the colour of spilt wine.

When Rudolph arrived at the castle, it was dark inside. From a distance he could see several figures buzzing around outside. Drawing nearer, he recognised the blue uniforms and crested black helmets of the Cornish constabulary. The Sergeant of Police met him on the gravel path. “I think you and I had better have a talk inside,” he said. “Um. Could you kindly let us in?”

Rudolph put on the kettle, because it seemed the proper thing to do. It hissed maliciously over the fire as the Sergeant explained to him how his father and mother had been killed that morning in a tragic farming accident. Rudolph was struck dumb, listening wordlessly and almost without feeling to the Sergeant’s voice.

“It is most distressing to me to be the bearer of bad news,” said the Sergeant, fiddling nervously with his moustache, “but I’m afraid there is one further misfortune of which I must make you aware. Before he died, your father disinherited you.”

“I beg your pardon!?” No longer speechless, Rudolph leapt to his feet in indignation. “Are you certain? Why would he do that? And why wouldn’t he tell me? There must be some mistake! Was this a recent decision?”

“Oh no,” said the Sergeant, “it happened almost a year before your birth… I suppose he must have forgotten about it, by the time you were born.”

“Can it be undone?”

The Sergeant coughed. “It is too late now.”

Rudolph frowned, thinking. He supposed it hadn’t actually made any difference to his life: he was still very much his parents’ son. Perhaps it had been done out of kindness, to save him in advance from the curse that had once hung over the head of the Baronet, whoever he happened to be.

Oh.

Cautiously, he asked, “Who is to be the new Baronet?”

“This may be difficult for you, lad. I’m afraid, in the absence of any male heirs,” (Rudolph glared at him) “Castle Ruddigore, the title and all your parents’ personal effects will pass into the possession of his foster-brother, Richard Dauntless.”

“Dick!?” Rudolph was outraged.

The Sergeant arched an eyebrow. “Now there’s no need for strong language,” he reproached.

“No, it’s just – my father has, _had_ , a brother. Despard. They were estranged once, but they’ve long since been reconciled. He hasn’t even spoken to Dick for eighteen years! They despise each other.”

“I’m afraid the will was made a long time ago, perhaps before your father’s reconciliation with his brother, uh, Despard. We did find a more recent will, but it was a forgery. Made about the same time he disinherited you.” The Sergeant shook his head. “I cannot understand it at all.”

 

***

 

Dick wasted no time. The next morning, Rudolph was sent away from the castle to live in his father’s old farmstead, alone. As he was leaving the house, his foster-uncle hissed in his ear, “My heart tells me plain as day you’re unwelcome here, so if ever I spy that flag of yours a-flyin’ in restricted waters again, you won’t have no friendly bun-fight on your hands. I run a tight little ship, and I won’t be having no bilge water on board, d’ye see?”

Zorah and Dick and their large family moved into the castle the same day. Dick, unlike his foster-brother, had innumerable children. Roger was the eldest, and fairly unobjectionable; but Willy, age fifteen, was the sulkiest, and the twins, Fanny and Randy, were undoubtedly the most annoying, and little Titty, at a humble ten months, was by far the noisiest.

Robin and Rose had agreed that the names were unfortunate; Rose had dithered over whether to say anything, but decided it would be indelicate. Zorah was blissfully oblivious, and so apparently was Dick himself, although you could never be sure.

Between the Dauntless children and the ex-Baronets of Ruddigore, the castle felt very full indeed.

 

***

 

There was a knock at the door of the farmstead. The sound was completely alien to Rudolph: He had lived there in complete isolation for a fortnight or longer (so long that he was losing track), and was not expecting a visitor. He half-thought the world had forgotten his existence all together; and anyway, if he wasn’t the son of Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd, who on earth was he?

When he opened the door, he was doubly surprised to see Dick’s son Roger standing in the doorway. “Um. Come in,” he said perfunctorily, and showed him into the living room. It was a small low-ceilinged room which was nevertheless the largest in the house, with a couple of squat sofas angled around a sooty fireplace, and on the mantelpiece a blurry daguerreotype of a young Robin with his old black-and-tan. Roger took a seat on one of the sofas, and began to unload the contents of a bag.

“I thought you might want more supplies,” he explained in his soft, quiet voice, as he produced two bottles of milk, several cuts of ham, a loaf of bread and a large block of cheese.

He was right. Rudolph did want more supplies – but hunger ached only slightly more than humiliation. He avoided Roger’s eye as he coughed and said, stiffly, “Thank you for your philanthropy.” Roger looked mortified. His cheeks coloured, so Rudolph softened slightly and said, “I mean to say, that was really thoughtful of you. I don’t have a lot of resources at my disposal.”

“Look,” Roger began, “I’m really sorry about my father. It’s beastly unfair. I wish I could do something more substantial,” he waved a hand at the bread and the ham, “this lot’s pathetic, isn’t it?”

“It’s more than anyone else has done.” Seriously, Rudolph confided, “Actually, I was beginning to worry. The larder here is pretty bare now, and I haven’t any money to speak of. Everything I own is in the castle. This fare is more than I’ve seen in days. So,” he forced a smile, “shall we enjoy it?”

Rudolph ate messily, tearing the bread from the crust with his hands. Roger accepted a small share of the food, then said, in that soft, measured voice of his, “I have something else for you, some news. Would you like it?”

Rudolph looked up warily, and nodded.

“Well… it’s been a bit overcrowded in the castle. Having your ancestors wandering about all over the place and so on has been a strain for my family –” (Rudolph scoffed humourlessly) “– and I daresay my family are putting a strain on them greater still. Tempers have been running high. At any rate, last night, while the baronets were all asleep in their frames, my father had them all put behind glass.”

“The deuce!”

“And what’s more, he’s plotting to open the doors of the castle to the public next weekend and auction them off to the highest bidder.”

Rudolph gasped. “B-b-but they aren’t his ancestors to sell!”

“Well, technically… your father left him the castle and its contents. They certainly _were_ your ancestors once, but they’re his ancestors now, and he’ll do what he pleases with them.”

“The devil he will!” cried Rudolph. Then, reigning in his emotions, he touched Roger’s arm. “Thank you for coming here and telling me this.”

Roger shuffled uncomfortably. “If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Thank you so much, I…” Rudolph trailed off, noticing Roger’s clothes for the first time. Or rather, recognising his own. He had only worn that wine-red velvet waistcoat once (it hadn’t suited him; it was far too lordly), and had found the cascading cream jabot far too itchy which was now pinned in place at Roger’s alabaster throat with an onyx brooch, the same black as his curling ebony hair. He stared. Fury at the boy’s presumption wrestled with something else.

Roger turned pale as he realised what it was that had caught Rudolph’s attention. “Oh horror! What an imbecile I am. I – I’m so sorry.”

“And I suppose Dick is strutting about my father’s clothes.” Rudolph spoke through clenched teeth.

Roger quickly fumbled to gather his things. “I should go.”

“Well?”

“Yes – he is.”

“He’ll regret it.”

Roger shot a nervous look at him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think –”

“Oh, forget it. Look, don’t go –” Roger was on his feet now but Rudolph caught hold of his hand to stop him. “I’m not angry with you. I’m grateful, for the bread. And this,” he waved a dismissive hand at Roger’s finery. “It, um… I never cared for it on myself. But there’s no forgiving your father.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Colouring, Roger pulled his hand free, and darted out of the door before Rudolph could utter another word.

 

***

 

There was only one thing to do.

Rudolph found the train journey rather exciting. Stowing himself on board with the luggage was easier than he’d expected; and although the journey itself was long and cramped in the windowless luggage van, still it was kept interesting by the terrifying thrill of every sound. He felt sure that any moment the ticket collector would appear to check whether he had paid the fare he hadn’t been able to afford. His nerves were sharp and keen, and his legs were ready to outrun any potential recriminations.

But there was something almost satisfying about having nothing to lose. Rudolph felt daring. Desperate. Nevertheless, it was a relief when he finally arrived, still undetected, at Basingstoke station.

He had worried about how he would find the house, but, maybe sensing the urgency, his feet took him there almost without him noticing. Before he knew it, his uncle was answering the door of a modest, red brick, semi-detached house and greeting Rudolph with a warm, if puzzled, welcome. His face was prematurely creased and his hair greyed from his ten years of crime; but the most recent eighteen years had added laughter lines and jollity, and his eyes were bright and kind. “Margaret! It’s our nephew! Do put on the kettle! Come in, Rudolph. It’s a long time since we’ve heard anything from your neck of the woods; you must bring us up to date.”

Rudolph did. His uncle listened, mostly with an expression of calm but kindly concern. When he had finished, Despard took a thoughtful sip of tea – and spat it out immediately. “What in the blazes!” Margaret giggled, and Despard went to investigate. Soon he had scooped the offending fish out of the kettle. He raised a weary eyebrow at his wife.

“I know: Basingstoke,” she murmured with a sigh.

“My apologies for my wife,” said Despard, putting an affectionate arm around her. “Visitors excite her.” He chewed his lip. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to advise you, Rudolph. It’s a nice dilemma. I’m afraid my wit isn’t up to it.” He turned his face to his wife. “Margaret?”

Taking up the challenge, she paused in an attitude of intellect: frowning, eyes raised in thought, stroking an imaginary goatee. Finally, “Why don’t you ask your mother?” she suggested.

Rudolph’s shoulders slumped. Why had he expected any meaningful help from these flighty philanthropists? “Because,” he began –

But Depard cut him off. “Just a moment. She’s right. Rose would know what to do; she knew what to do in any situation. How did she know?”

The cogs turned in Rudolph’s brain.

Click. “Her etiquette book.”

 

***

 

“Shh – quickly!” Roger beckoned to Rudolph from down the corridor. Apparently, the coast was clear. Rudolph followed the other boy up the staircase and onto the first floor landing. Roger went ahead again, then gave the sign. Rudolph ducked into his parents’ old room, and they shut the door.

The room was largely untouched. It wasn’t the largest or finest bedroom in the house, so (although Dick and Zorah might well have had a glance around for anything particularly valuable) it seemed to have mostly escaped interference. Rudolph scanned the room for the familiar little book. It was lying close to hand on the bedside table. Good.

“Thank you, Roger,” Rudolph said, as he retrieved the book.

“Is that everything you need?” asked Roger, his voice quiet and earnest.

Rudolph glanced at the door. “Yes, just this. I don’t want your father to notice anything gone.”

The two boys sat on the edge of the bed, and Rudolph flicked idly through the book. Under the sweet smell of the ageing paper, he could still pick out his mother’s perfume. It was older than his mother had been, and had outlived her too. And Margaret was right – it probably knew everything she did.

“I think I remember seeing your mother with that book,” Roger offered quietly.

“Yes, it was kind of important to her.” He looked up from the book to smile blandly at Roger. “I’m glad to have it back.”

Roger put an awkward arm around him. They sat in silence for a few moments; then Rudolph shifted uncomfortably, and got to his feet. “Come on.”

 

***

 

On the way out, as they crept through the castle corridors, something halted Rudolph. A new frame. And in that frame…

As he turned to look, Rudolph half-expected the figure to move. Indeed, the likeness was so good that he almost did seem to move. The corners of his lips, with their soft shadows, almost seemed to twitch, the pinspots of light in his eyes almost seemed to twinkle. But no – of all the twenty-two portraits in the castle, his father alone was still and lifeless.

Rudolph was no stranger to death. He thought he remembered Dame Hannah, rocking him on her lap when he was very small, singing him songs of fairies and witches. That rather gothic gentleman he had once called Old Adam he now knew as Late Adam. Rudolph could still remember his deep, resonant laugh, echoing off every wall of the sprawling stone castle.

But that was exactly what felt so wrong. His father’s silence. In Castle Ruddigore, the dead never shut up.

He felt a gentle tug on his arm. “Come on,” said Roger softly.

“Why isn’t he moving? Why doesn’t he hang with the other pictures?”

“Your father died an innocent man’s death,” said Roger. “I’m sorry, Rudolph. It’s just a painting.”

 

***

 

Rudolph had read this page a hundred times. It was titled, _Financial Matters: on how a woman treats money mannerly and property properly._ It was completely useless.

“Listen to this,” said Rudolph: “ _It is unseemly to let oneself wax too attached to material things. You may not covet what is another’s; nor yet must you seem too jealous of what is your own. Be mindful that whatever you have, you would want save for the generosity of men and the grace of God_.”

“Most enlightening,” agreed Roger, without enthusiasm. He joined Rudolph on the sofa. “Why don’t you let me have a look,” he suggested, passing a cup of tea to Rudolph in exchange for the book. “You should take a rest.”

Rudolph sipped the tea. He focused on the heat spreading through him; he could follow it down his throat, through his body, and imagine it spreading out to every toe and every fingertip. He sat in silence, his eyes idly tracing the gentle curl of Roger’s black hair, which the fire lent a warm red rim of light. It was three weeks. Summer was gone. The auction was tomorrow. He felt nothing.

“Look here,” said Roger. He pointed to a rather dry grammatical section of the book outlining the uses of the verbs “shall” and “will”. Rudolph cast an eye over it, then looked up, nonplussed.

“I don’t see how this helps,” he said.

“You follow the meaning of it, though?” asked Roger. “In first person singular, _I shall_ expresses futurity, whereas _I will_ expresses desire – and so on?”

“Yes?” One of them must be really stupid, Rudolph thought. He wondered whether it was him or Roger.

“Well, my father has inherited your castle according to your father’s Last Will and Testament – not his Last Shall. It just made me think – his will is supposed to be an expression of his desires, so – can we prove that he doesn’t desire it any more?”

It was Roger. Roger was the stupid one. “No,” Rudolph snapped. “We can’t prove anything.”

He went outside, shutting the door with force behind him, and breathed in the cool autumn air. He thought of the lifeless brushstrokes, that gold frame as good as empty.

By the time he had calmed down and returned inside, Roger was gone.

 

***

 

“Do you see what I’m asking you to do?”

“Well, yes, but… I confess, I cannot understand it at all. It’s a most irregular request. How does it help?”

“It’ll help,” said Roger. “Trust me.”

“Right ho,” said the Sergeant.

 

***

 

The castle was packed. There might have been a few wealthy art collectors present, but most of the crowd seemed to be villagers from Rederring and the neighbouring hamlets, morbidly eager to see inside the mysterious cursed Castle Ruddigore. The children were gripping their parents hands fearfully. The adults were nosily peering around, murmuring to each other, and a curious few had even tried to sneak their way into private rooms.

Rudolph wasn’t sure why he had come. It might be his last chance to see inside his childhood home – but being here as an intruder, being shepherded along with the crowds, was so strange. He had spotted Dick, dressed in a top hat and black tailcoat that his father had probably worn back in his evil days but hardly touched since. It was far too tight for its new owner, and it gave Rudolph some slight satisfaction to see his strained movements. He was obviously uncomfortable: dressed up as the baronet, but so far from being the real thing.

Suddenly he heard the rap of a gavel. The chatter increased as the crowd pushed their way into a circle around the makeshift stage. Dick was standing there, and beside him Zorah fussed about with the velvet coverings concealing the paintings from view.

“Thank ye for comin’,” said Dick, in a manner he must have thought ingratiating. “We’ve some right fine paintings a-waitin’ for the weigh off today, and that’s well said.” Rudolph was pleased to see that Dick was struggling to make himself understood through his thick, seafarer’s accent. A large part of the audience seemed to have lost interest already.

Zorah revealed the first painting. Rudolph’s stomach lurched. It was his father.

“Granted, this ain’t the finest offering we’ve got for you today. Granted, the paintwork’s crude and the lighting’s fair harsh, but I won’t hear a bad word said about its subject.” Dick allowed himself a snigger. “It’s thanks to him I’m a-sailin’ in such pleasant waters today.” And he looked straight at Rudolph, and winked.

Rudolph’s senses clouded with anger. The next few minutes washed over him, and he was only distantly aware of a clamour of shouting and blurred movement, then Dick’s voice calling “a-goin’, goin’, g–”

The doors burst open. “Stop, in the name of the law!”

Rudolph collected himself with effort, and looked into the bright daylight. The Sergeant of Police was striding towards the auctioneer down a swiftly parting path through the crowd. Behind him, with dark cheeks and downcast eyes and shoulders sloped, Roger followed.

Dick sprang down from the platform towards the Sergeant. “What kind o’ storm be a-castin’ this auction aground?” he demanded.

“I’m here to arrest that painting.” Gasps all round. “I’m sorry to say that the Late Baronet of Ruddigore has had his tractor parked in a public highway in a most obstructive and dangerous manner for over a fortnight.”

As he spoke, Sir Ruthven blinked, yawned, and began to move. He saw the crowd, eyes trained expectantly on him. “Sorry I’m late,” he remarked. “I hope I haven’t kept you all waiting.”

 

***

 

“You’re brilliant,” Rudolph told Roger. He earnestly meant it.

They were standing on the gravel drive, watching the Police Sergeant escort Dick and Zorah off the premises. Sir Ruthven had apologised for the tractor, paid a fine in exchange for his liberty, and thanked the Sergeant profusely for charging him. The Sergeant had repeated several times that he found the whole thing completely incomprehensible.

Rudolph felt that his foster-uncle had got off jolly lightly.

“It was nothing,” said Roger. “I’m glad you’ve got your castle back.”

“Better: I’ve got my family back.” Rudolph had left the etiquette book in the gallery with his father. His other forebears had been freed from behind their glass. A replacement butler had even appeared from nowhere, going by the name of New Adam and looking suspiciously identical to his predecessor. Things felt strangely normal.

“Yes,” Roger replied quietly.

“Oh.” Rudolph looked at him, realising for the first time that maybe _he_ couldn’t go home now. “Oh gosh. What will you do now?”

“I don’t know. Buy a one-way ticket to Basingstoke?” Roger kicked the gravel.

“I have a better idea.” Rudolph thought of Roger in his red velvet waistcoat. He had looked exquisite. He thought of his calm, quiet, confident voice, and his competent handling of the recent crisis. “Will you stay here? You’re far more lordly than I am.”

“With you?”

Rudolph thought for a moment. A lark carolled cheerily in a nearby tree. “No,” he replied, at last. He sighed. “There’s something else I need to do.”

“Where are you going?”

“I would have been lost, if you hadn’t been there to help me. I’m grateful, very. But more than that: I keep thinking how many more boys there must be in my position.”

“Oh, I don’t think –”

“Not cursed young baronets, maybe, but normal boys with nowhere to go and no-one to care for them. And I can’t just go home. I want to do something.”

 

***

 

They walked together until sundown, and after supper Roger helped Rudolph to pack his things. “The rest is yours. Keep it safe for me, yes?”

Roger wouldn’t hear anything else from him for five years.

 

***

 

The newly promoted Captain of the _Tom Tit_ was in his cabin when the lookout boy came racing into the room. “Bad news, Capt’n,” the boy panted.

“Aye? Out with it, lad!” ordered Dick.

“There’s a ship, closin’ on our starboard side, a-flyin’ a flag that’s all bones. I reckon it must be–”

“The pirates!” Dick raced out onto the deck in time to see them swarming across. His eye met that of their apparent ringleader, the young man standing on the enemy deck issuing orders. Dick thought he saw a tiny smile, somehow familiar, flicker on his freckled face.

Before boarding the commandeered ship, the Pirate King turned, raised his freckled arm and saluted the Jolly Roger with a grin.


End file.
